In those days I still got off
On the crackling of old book spines,
The sound the needle made
When it hit the vinyl
And the way the pages of art books smelled
In narrow library aisles.
I wedged my skinny body in among the piles
And breathed in Diego Rivera, Dali, Brautigan
Neruda and Ntozake Shange
While my neglected shelving cart
Sat somewhere idle
And hidden away.
In those days I thought nothing
Of letting the hours drift by
Listening to Hendrix play in the dark room
While K. let his wet prints dry.
I thought nothing of walking a long lone trail
Through the woods behind Kruger village
Mel’s words and her pepper spray in tow.
I longed then as I do now
For the right silent spaces
That only the spirit can know.